


What Doesn't Break Us Makes Us Stronger

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Break up - kind of, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greg is stronger than Mycroft thinks, Greg keeps a diary, M/M, Make Up, Talk of assassination, That Mycroft doesn't know about, Until it's nearly too late, emotional breakdown, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft severs their three-year relationship for reasons he considers good and valid. Not, of course, good and valid enough to discuss with Greg. What he doesn't know, keeps him safe. Mycroft is convinced that everything will be fine and that Greg will understand - that is, until he finds the diary that Greg accidentally left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Doesn't Break Us Makes Us Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of based off of the song 'Dear Darlin' by Olly Murs. Inspired almost. Kind of.
> 
> There is fluff, I promise. Just have to wade through the angst first.
> 
> As usual, you can find more of my stuff at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com)!

"I said remove yourself from the premises."  
  
"Come on, Mycroft. You don't have to do this. We can work it out."  
  
"Leave. Or I shall call my security, and they will make you."  
  
"Like they'd do that. We've been dating three years, you really think they'd throw me out?"  
  
"They have to do what I ask them to, whether or not it aligns with their wishes."  
  
"Well that isn't the slightest bit worrisome."  
  
"Leave. I don't want to see you."  
  
"Mycroft, please."  
  
"Get out, Detective Inspector."  
  
From the expression on Greg's face, that cut as deeply as Mycroft had intended to. The politician steeled himself, forcing himself to keep the desired nonchalant expression on his face. He maintained eye contact, allowing distaste to curl his mouth down into a displeased frown. Greg was staring at him as if Mycroft had just yanked a rug out from underneath him. In a way, Mycroft had. Their relationship had been fine. There had been no warning signs, nothing Greg could have used to predict Mycroft's behavior.  
  
For once, Mycroft would agree with the oft-used 'It's not you, it's me' sentiment he heard repeated by teenage girls. For all that he wasn't a teenage girl, he understood the predicament. Greg did not share his security clearance, and could not know things that Mycroft knew. He wished it was different, wished they didn't fit together so well. He wished it didn't hurt so damn much when he saw the tears coursing down Greg's cheeks, saw the cloudiness in his eyes as he accepted his fate. "Please do shut the door behind you on the way out." He kept his tone bored. Disinterested. Like he didn't care what happened to Greg, now that things were over.  
  
He heard, rather than saw, Greg turn around and leave. Good. He was gone. Mechanically Mycroft's gaze swept the room and he was dismayed to discover that Greg had left behind an overnight bag. They had never officially moved in, not even after three years. Mycroft had forbade it, and Greg had, after several frustrated attempts, simply stopped asking why. Instead Greg would bring enough to stay three or four nights, and Mycroft occasionally returned the favor. Mycroft swallowed through the lump in his throat. Would Greg come back for the bag?  
  
Glancing about him, he unfolded from his position in the armchair, and went over and picked the bag up, taking it back with him as he sat down. After a moment he stood up and went and locked the doors to the study. He didn't want to risk any distractions. Slowly he unzipped the discrete black bag. Greg packed minimally, for he kept quite a bit at Mycroft's house. Or had, at one point. There would be none of that any more. Mycroft bit his lip harshly, drawing blood, as he fought to shove back down the pang of pain at the thought.  
  
Mycroft was careful as he unpacked the neatly-folded clothing, although he could not help but inhale Greg's scent on his clothes. It hurt at the same time it soothed, and it was almost like Greg being back there again, holding Mycroft in his arms. He choked back an undignified sob as he uncovered one of Greg's favorite shirts. Greg looked amazing in this one, the chestnut brown of it accentuating his skin, making his chocolate eyes pop. He pressed it to his nose and took a deep breath, ignoring the few droplets of his tears staining the clean fabric. There was Greg's scent again, the slight hint of his deodorant, the odd cologne he wore on occasion, the faint smell of pure Greg wafting into Mycroft's nose.  
  
Stoically he gathered himself and placed the shirt down with the rest. There wasn't much more. Some toiletries, socks, pants. At the bottom there was a nondescript, leather diary. It was one Mycroft had never seen before. Intrigued, he picked it up and sat it on his lap. The bag itself was relegated to the floor. Mycroft tucked his feet up on the chair, curling slightly so that he could rest the journal on his lap, close to his eyes. His vision was starting to fade a bit, but that was not something he had shared with anyone. Well, Greg had noticed. Inconsequential.  
  
Shaking his head, Mycroft undid the heavy clasp of the leather-bound book and opened it. His eyes widened as he realized what it was, what treasure he now held in his hands. He had never known that Greg was an avid writer, never knew that he journaled, writing down the details of his days and activities in the leather-clad book. Yet here it now was, in his hands, the day he had ordered the man out of his home and out of his life.  
  
He continued to thumb through the pages, reveling in their topics, in the love he could feel coming from each and every word. Although the journal did not cover their entire relationship, just the last year of it, Mycroft was unable to read more than a few passages without feeling tears spring to his eyes.  
  
 _'January 28th._  
  
 _Stayed at Mycroft's, after dinner. He's in his study, I think, doing whatever he should be doing when I'm not around. Sometimes I wonder what he's doing with a copper like me, someone unimportant, while he saves the world, or whatever he does. Then I think about the times where he needs me. When he needs to be grounded, held and supported, and it's like the world rights itself again. He's important, that's true. But I think he needs me like I need him._  
  
 _I think I hear him coming. Will write more later.'_  
  
Mycroft gripped the pages of the journal so tightly that, for a moment, he feared he was going to rip it in half. He was not aware of a tear coursing down his cheek, nor was he aware of the faintest sounds of a disturbance far outside the walls.  
  
 _'March 4th._  
  
 _We had a row today. I think I even threw something at him. Not my greatest moment, I'll admit. He's so brilliant and so dense at the same time. How does he not know that I love him? That I would do anything for him? I will admit I have never said it. Never let those words pass my lips. He's a bloody Holmes, I shouldn't have to! That is kind of unfair, though. I can write it here, though. Somewhere that he'll never read. I love Mycroft Holmes. I bet he's got cameras installed in here. Hmm. Maybe I should make sure that you couldn't see this from wherever he's watching._  
  
 _I wonder what that says, that I love him despite his stalker tendencies and the way sometimes he'll frown like he's smelling something unpleasant. That's rather adorable, though. So is the way he stands, the way he walks, the way he bends over and - not thinking about that. I don't even remember what we fought about today. I think it was probably work. Mycroft's lost at least a stone lately, and despite what he thinks, he can't afford to lose any more than that. Sometimes I wish I could shoot Sherlock for ever putting the notion that he was fat in Mycroft's mind. Who am I kidding, sometimes I wish I could shoot Sherlock for just being Sherlock._  
  
 _Not that I would shoot to kill, mind you. Maybe just maim a bit. I'm sure John would appreciate being able to bungee cord him to the sofa for a month or something. It'd be a public service. For the greater good. Hah!'_  
  
Tears were streaming down Mycroft's cheeks, and he seemed startled when several drops appeared on the page. He didn't cry. He never cried. The last time he had cried, he was six and Father had just left. It was unseemly. His vision swam, and the sensitive pads of his fingers danced across the page. Finally he closed his eyes, giving up sight and allowing himself to feel. Fingertips moved across the page, feeling the dips where Greg's pen wrote, feeling the speed, the emotion. Greg had loved him. Greg wanted him, wanted him for being him. And Mycroft had just screwed it up. He had lost what he had always wanted.  
  
Suddenly his reason for forcing Greg to leave felt so hollow, his reason for refusing to allow him to move in even more so. Mycroft had been scared. The ice man had been scared, frightened of the permanence of such a relationship and what it could mean for him. It would have meant that he trusted someone to stay with him no matter what. And he had not. Instead he had refused to allow Greg to take that step, to demonstrate his commitment through a shared residence. It was Mycroft's fault.  
  
Forcing Greg to leave had been an easier thought, although the actual doing so had been far more difficult than Mycroft had anticipated. Mycroft had gotten word of a hit out on himself. During a recent - trip - he had angered one of the larger drug cartels. He was mostly impressed that said cartel had been able to trace the doings back to him, instead of the various scapegoats the government always placed when Mycroft had to do one of his rare bits of field work. Anyone in his company was at risk, Greg especially. If they were as meticulous in their watching as Mycroft was in his, the cartel spies would easily discover what Greg meant to Mycroft.  
  
They had fought so hard to keep their relationship a secret. Not that Greg cared, but he knew Mycroft did. Absently a part of Mycroft wondered if he had ever told Greg exactly why it was important to keep it a secret. He searched his memory, both grateful for and hating his eidetic memory at the same time when it came up devoid of any solutions. Fuck. Greg was not the only one who was remiss, who had left things unsaid that should have been said. Not that it mattered any more. Not that it mattered a single bit, for Mycroft was never going to see Greg again.  
  
Not in person, anyway. There was no harm to a bit of friendly cyberstalking, and if it meant that Mycroft spent all of his free time moping at the CCTV cameras, then so be it. Not that he was undignified enough to mope. Moping was for peasants and plebeians and who was Mycroft kidding. He would be downloading all the footage he could find of Greg and storing it where he could watch it, could remember and wish that things had turned out differently. "Fuck," Mycroft murmured, the swear word feeling deliciously naughty on his tongue. "Fuck." He swore louder this time, fingers clenching tightly on the journal in his hands. "Fuck. Why...fuck."  
  
Great. Now he was reduced to swear words and incoherency. It was a battle between whether he missed or hated Greg more. Missed him, missed having him close, missed cuddles on the couch and the kissing and the sex. Hated him for being able to reduce him to what he was, feeling lost and suspended, everything torn and broken. "I'm so sorry," he whispered raggedly. He did not have to work until tomorrow. Then he could focus on recovering his control. For now, he could allow himself just to float. To cry and be human, to revel in the cathartic release that the tears brought, as undignified as they were.  
  
"Why are you sorry?" Greg's rough voice came from behind Mycroft and he stiffened. There were a lot more swear words that he would use to demonstrate his displeasure with the current situation.  
  
"I thought I asked you to leave," Mycroft said fiercely, careful to keep his face angled away from Greg. It wouldn't do well for Greg to see him like that, to see him all broken over something he had enacted.  
  
"Yeah, then I realized I left my bag here." Greg shrugged from the doorway; Mycroft could see him out of his peripheral vision now. He had closed the door and was standing leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest. He was visibly tired, the lines etching into his handsome face deeper than Mycroft had remembered even days before. And it was his fault, of course. He fought down a rising well of guilt. "Now I see that I'll have to pack it all up."  
  
"The door was locked." Mycroft scowled, feeling oddly like a petulant teenager and not at all comfortable with such emotions.  
  
"Sherlock," Greg said, as if that explained it all. And it did. Sherlock had taught him how to pick locks.  
  
"How long have you been here?" Mycroft asked suddenly, dreading the answer.  
  
"Since you started crying." Greg was watching him, Mycroft could feel it in the hairs on the back of his neck.  
  
He stood up, careful to keep his back towards the Detective Inspector. "I expect you to be gone in the next few minutes. I shall allow enough time for you to finish packing your belongings, and then I don't want to see you again." Mycroft walked towards the door that led to his bedroom. The steps were agonisingly slow, taking far longer than he had anticipated. It was like walking through molasses.  
  
"You still have my journal." Greg started moving, Mycroft could feel it, and all he could think was no, over and over again, until his mind crashed and burned, skittering uselessly off somewhere else as he felt a rough finger on his chin. He was turned towards Greg, so Greg could see his face, see his red-rimmed eyes. Mycroft probably looked horrific. "I knew it."  
  
Part of Mycroft wanted to ask 'knew what?', but he couldn't. All he could do was stare at Greg's shoulder, at his neck, anything, and hope he could freeze it to death with his gaze or something equally malevolent. "Talk to me," Greg murmured, his voice catching as he spoke.  
  
"Go away."  
  
"Not going to happen."  
  
"I'll have you thrown out."  
  
"I think you know that you wouldn't."  
  
Mycroft's silence was petulant as he fought to find something to say that would make Greg leave. For all Mycroft knew his home was wired. If that was the case, wasn't it defeating the purpose of sending Greg away in the first place? His confusion must have shown on his face, for something shifted in Greg's, and there were warm, gentle lips on his. Not pressuring, not demanding, but soft, simple caresses that made Mycroft's insides feel like they were melting into a puddle of goo. Greg pulled back after a minute, keeping his face close to Mycroft's. "Mycroft, I haven't done anything to hurt you. I've spent the past three amazing years respecting your boundaries. I learned when you wanted me to push, and when you wanted to keep something hidden. I've followed that faithfully." He took a deep breath, and Mycroft couldn't help but let his gaze flicker to Greg's, examining the familiar face. "I know you don't want me to push, but I'm going to."  
  
"I've never wanted anything more in my life. I'm guessing you read this, but you deserve to know. I love you, Mycroft. Even when you're doing something stupid and pushing me away. Even when you're being all odd and trying to shove me out the door when it's obvious you don't want to. When you're being all contrary on purpose, or you've had a bad day and you're convinced that someone rearranged the spices and you spend two hours putting everything back in order. I love all of it." Greg was speaking softly, insistently, and his arms had wrapped around Mycroft and pulled him, unresisting, close and snug against Greg's warm body.  
  
This time Mycroft didn't cry. He didn't know why. Instead he felt like something had shifted inside, something that had locked onto Greg's words and realigned Mycroft's entire life to suit the declaration. Like he didn't have a choice in the matter, that things had already been decided. Greg was watching him, eyes gentle, not pressuring, but supportive. "What are you thinking?" Greg said, his voice encouraging. "Don't retreat into that mind of yours. I'm afraid I can smell the smoke from here."  
  
That drew a scowl from the politician, and the corner of Greg's eyes crinkled as he smiled wearily. "Move in," Mycroft said suddenly, surprising both of them. “Move in with me.” For a second Mycroft's fingers traced over his lips as if ensuring that they still belonged to him. That was in no way what he meant to say. Then again, he didn't really know what he meant to say in the first place, so maybe it really was what he had intended to say.  
  
"So you're not going to break up with me, then?" Greg inquired. "Just making sure."  
  
Mycroft wondered absently if he even had a choice in the matter. Damn Greg for leaving his items behind. Things would have gone so much better if Mycroft had not discovered the journal. "There is a price out on my head, and if you - if we are still us, then you are in danger, as well. I can protect you better here."  
  
A few emotions flickered over Greg's face, and Mycroft watched them with interest. Greg was putting the pieces together far quicker than he had expected. "That's why. You were pushing me away to keep me safe."  
  
Hadn't his Mum always said that honesty was the best policy? "Yes," Mycroft admitted. He was drawn into a kiss, arms wrapped around his shoulders and a hand cradling his head to provide better access. He kissed back, trying to communicate his emotions as best as he could. His uncertainty, his fear, his guilt, all wrapped up as he bared himself for Greg to see. A small part of him wondered what he had been afraid of. Greg had come back, and he still wanted Mycroft, even with a price on his head.  
  
"I love you," Mycroft said quietly as they separated, his voice breathless from the torrid kisses. "I'm sorry." The words felt unfamiliar on his tongue; it was rare that he had said a sincere sorry to another human being that wasn't linked to Sherlock causing some kind of chaos.  
  
"I think you trying to dump me was the best part of this so far," Greg said with a quiet, worn chuckle. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "Let's go to bed. We can move me in tomorrow."  
  
Wiping the remnants of the tears off of his cheek, Mycroft took Greg's hand and led him to the bedroom. They changed into pyjamas, trading lazy, unhurried kisses as they did so. Many of Mycroft's worries had bled away, although he was certain the guilt would linger for far longer than he would have liked. Part of him was awestruck, marveling at the perfection that was Gregory Lestrade when he was feeling kind, marveling at how lucky Mycroft was that Greg had came back, that he had understood. Mycroft shook his head slightly, drawing a questioning look from his partner as they settled on the bed, Greg curled up in his arms.  
  
"Clearing my thoughts," Mycroft explained. Greg smiled and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's palm.  
  
"Sleep well, love." Greg mumbled sleepily, drifting off within moments of settling underneath the duvet. Mycroft laid awake for a while longer. His mind would not shut off, would not stop reminding him just how lucky he was that Greg was in his life. Things would still be difficult in the future; Mycroft could not change overnight. But now that they had started to communicate, Mycroft felt he could continue. It was the only way things would work out. He hoped he was brave enough to follow through, for Greg deserved nothing but the best. And he wanted Mycroft. With that thought in his head, and his unbelievably tolerant partner in his arms, Mycroft finally allowed himself to tip over into slumber.


End file.
